Page 68 of Rogue

Okay then.

“Finger yourself.”

Something about the aggressive way he’s ordering me, so domineering, so aggressively masculine, just does it for me. Finger myself? No problem. Enjoy the show because I’ve got news for you. I’m going to get you inside me. Making love to me—or fucking, however you want to label it.

I lean back into the mirror, shift my weight to one leg, and cock the knee of the other leg. Cupping my breast with one hand, I slowly slide my hand across my abdomen, to my mound, to the hot wet mess between my legs. With two fingers, I part my folds and sink my fingers inside my channel.

“Fuck.”

I’m going to put on a show for him he’ll be jerking off to for months. Make him want me enough to regret his reasons for being here in Paris. Regret his orders to kill me.

I open my lips to let out a fake moan, but something sounding more like a wild animal escapes my throat first. My fingers are drenched. My nipples hardening like pebbles. My body loving what I’m doing, that he’s watching me with those sexy hooded eyes. The truth spelled out in every stroke, every little shiver of pleasure running up my spine. I shouldn’t want this. Not like this, under these circumstances, with all the distrust and unanswered questions, to be fucked just like any number of his targets. Fucking is what Jaxson does.

Not always . . . you know differently.

He rips the foil packet and rolls the condom across his erection. Unable to hide his reaction, along with the lust in his eyes.

Hard. Rough. Distant. I’ll take him any way I can get him.

“Do it,” I demand.

“Turn around and brace yourself against the mirror.”

Without a word, I pivot on my toes, spiraling around but not without accidentally brushing up against his arousal. I’m rewarded with his quick inhalation of breath.

I feel the heat of his chest even before he lifts me and pushes into my back, holding me in place against the mirror with his muscular chest. He hooks his elbow beneath the back of my knee and lifts my leg, positioning it high against the mirror. His erection slides between my thighs with his movements.

Someone moans. Me. Yes, me.

“I used to think you deserved better than a fast fuck,” he says, his nose brushing my ear. “That you were special.”

“I’m not.”You’re right, I was. Until I wasn’t there when you needed me the most.“Do it, damn you.”

He flexes and lifts, raising my leg and angling me into position.

“I’m going to fuck you six ways into Sunday. You’re going to take every inch of me, deep until you whimper my name. Make you forget your own name. And when I’m done, we’re done.”

When I’m done with my job, he means.

Not if I can evade you.

I feel him shift behind me but am unprepared for the feel of him slamming up inside of me, in one fluid movement filling me to the hilt with his beautiful cock. I moan loudly, my moistness easing the friction of his thrust. Still, the walls of my channel strain to adjust around his thick girth. My memory of him only a shadow of how he really feels deep inside me.

He withdraws slowly, and then slams me into the mirror from the weight behind his thrust.

I swear to God, I see stars.

Flexing his hips, he pulls back, then grinds back into me, withdraws before he hammers into me, pulls back, then takes a kill shot by slowly sliding into me. Inch by inch until each and every nerve sings out with joy.

“Jaxson,” I half whisper, half moan. Our eyes connect. It’s like being thrust into the past, to another time, another place where we reveled in each other’s pleasure. When we couldn’t get enough of each other. The feel, touch, smell of him. The warmth of his body against mine. His naughty grin. His trust. I can’t even ask the question, “What happened to us?” Because the answer is clear: I didn’t show up. I risked his life—suffered . . . agonized . . . over the loss of his life, too—and that special bond that only he and I shared is dead.

I’m sorry . . . so sorry.

I choke back tears as his features harden. “You bitch,” he grunts, pulling out of me completely and releasing my body and my leg to settle back on my feet.

That word feels like someone waved a magic idiot wand in my face.

“That all you got?” I taunt, foolishly.